4
by Canadino
Summary: By reading this story, you are unwittingly setting off a chain of events that may or may not be beneficial to the global existance as a whole. Within lies supernatural siblings and the general public. You have been warned. Various pairings, AU.
1. Vargas Intro

**Disclaimer: The only thing I own is the story idea and only some of the witty remarks. I own so little; so please don't steal.**

Background music: -

[=]

4

As you sit here reading and as I weave this narrative together, just as we speak, two journalists a span of a city apart are just about to open their doors and meet with the greatest news story of their lives.

[=]

Antonio Carriedo is a man not quite made for the tense, fast-paced world of journalism. He figures since he is good at penning sonnets and ballads, he is a decent writer, but writers don't make the money unless someone constantly reads their writing. So he goes into university thinking that newspapers can't be all that bad and he likes to talk to other people so how hard can newswriting be, really?

So here he is, a fresh-faced twenty-six year old, lying on the ratty couch in his apartment with yesterday's newspaper over his face as he "mulls" over a story he's had writer's block for for at least two days. See as he breathes slowly, and how he seems to be turning over the facts in his head. Pay no mind to the soft snore-like sounds; they are only the sounds of a _thinker_.

His laptop is lying a couple feet away, on top of the messy coffee table. That table has not seen a coaster or even a cup for a year now – not after it has been taken over by rejected drafts and scribbled notes from a previous interview. Antonio is not a cleaner. If he searches hard enough, he might find the socks he thought he lost a couple weeks ago under the chaos.

The digital clock over the oven reads seven-three-five, although according to his watch, it is really one-four-one, while his computer would beg to differ: it's actually three-one-five in the afternoon, as the sun peeking through the curtains would agree to. The article is due in four hours and forty-five minutes. Antonio has gotten not but a paragraph into his deadline.

The doorbell rings.

The doorbell rings again, impatiently.

"I'mcomin'," Antonio slurs, blinking the sleep out of his eyes. For a moment, he wonders if it is eight yet – _crap he missed his deadline_ – and the newspaper falls off his face. Ah, it's still light. Someone is at the door. He pulls his feet over the side of the couch and falls promptly onto the floor, chest first.

The doorbell rings again.

"Coming!" he calls, hoping it is not his editor. She will have his head for this. Charlie likes to run strict to the clock, and she will come into his apartment, first chewing him out for keeping it in such a pigsty before surveying his work so far and screaming at him for that. She may look like a pretty face in a dress suit and hair band, but she is a terror. "I swear I'll have it by eight!" he adds quickly, but whoever is at the door does not answer.

Antonio runs his fingers through his hair and hopes he looks presentable when he opens the door. There, standing at his doormat is a young man with rustic brown hair and a scowl on his face. He is wearing a white, hospital gown, in bare feet. Antonio wonders if he's run away, but that would be impossible. The closest hospital is five miles from here and the closest asylum is twenty minutes from here – and it's relocating. _Oh man, it's relocating_.

Antonio is about to close the door again before the crazy man can get in but something catches his eye: on the young, frowning man's neck is a dark violet tattoo, stretching from an inch or two below his jaw down to his collarbone – the number 4.

[=]

Ludwig Beilschmidt pours himself a glass of beer. He puts down the bottle, watches it for a moment, before taking it and downing whatever is left. He sets the glass down on the kitchen counter for a future date.

He is finished with his articles. As he walks past his desk, feast your eyes on the cleanliness of it – admire the neat stacks of paper in their proper spot. Look at the Post-It notes that have numbers and times and dates, in clean handwriting. The computer is placed in its designated spot. Observe the fax machine, which Ludwig just used to fax his two articles to his office, three days before deadline. Now isn't he such a productive, hard worker?

The problem is, Ludwig is rather bored with the articles he has to write. There is only so much to say about the local supermarket deciding to sell local. This city has nothing to offer, he thinks. Officials have not been caught corrupted yet. In fact, the recent elections have not allowed any sort of leeway yet. Crime is not memorable, save for the teenager who tried to rob a drugstore with a water gun.

Ludwig thinks he will do some laundry, walk his dogs, and call it an early night when the doorbell rings.

He turns to the door, but he realizes he cannot see through the wood. Whoever can it be at this hour? Right; it's completely normal to expect visitors at four in the afternoon. It might be the old lady next door who will complain about his dogs. He takes a deep breath and thinks about what he will say. _No, ma'am, Berlitz has not been out yet today, he is not the one who ran over your potted plants in the hall, and if you would, perhaps you should move them inside?_ But when he opens the door, it is not a woman, but a young, half-shy, half-eager looking young man. He has sleepy eyes and a stupid face.

"May…I help you?" Ludwig asks, quickly giving the boy a one over. White hospital gown, doped demeanor…he should get his keys and drive the guy back to the hospital. But the brunette wanders into his room as if invited and looks around. When he turns his head once, Ludwig catches a glimpse of something curious – a violet tattoo off a 4 on his neck, stretching down like something had sucked it off a clock and onto his boy's skin.

Blackie trots over and gives the boy a sniff. The visitor cries out as if he has never seen a dog before. Blackie gives him an offended whine and turns its nose and walks away. Ludwig keeps the door open. Maybe the kid will get his bearings and realize he should be on his way out. But the boy does not make any movement toward the door; instead, in the middle of his sitting room, he turns on his heels and looks at Ludwig.

[=]

"You called me," the brown haired boy says. "So I came."

[=]

Antonio wonders if that was supposed to be a double entendre. He also wonders why he has such a dirty mind.

"Well?" the brunette says, obviously miffed. "Aren't you going to let me in?"

"Uh," Antonio says, because for all his skills with words, speaking is one of them. The boy scowls at him, and pushes past him into the apartment. Upon stepping in, he sees: exhibit A, the sink of dishes that Antonio has not touched for a couple days; exhibit B, a pair of boxers sitting on top of the television; exhibit C, a mess of tree pulp hammered to sheets that Antonio calls his 'office'. Now gape upon his face, which has contorted to something a mixture of surprise and revulsion.

"You are disgusting," the mysterious unnamed boy says.

"No, I'm Antonio," Antonio says, pressing a smile to his face, because he believes that reacting to bad news with a grin solves most of the problem. Optimism. It's good. "Antonio Carriedo, full time journalist for XY News. Nice to meet you."

The boy stares at him.

"You don't have a name," Antonio asserts. It would have been a good time then to say it, but since the boy didn't, Antonio only has to assume the obvious.

"Yes, I do!" The boy shouts, and Antonio squints, because he _swears_ the boy's feet left the ground. It must be his imagination. It's still his imagination when the boy floats up to the ceiling, crossing his arms with a pout. "It's Romano. Romano Vargas, you bastard, and you'd better remember that." The gown droops downward like drapes someone stupidly attached to the ceiling. Any observer, such as you, might notice the pervert Antonio try to inch his way under the flying boy, Romano. Romano's back sticks to the ceiling, like a figurehead.

"That's cute," Antonio says, thinking he sees a tomato pattern underneath the white, while the flash of the violet 4 catches his eye again. Romano's face turns red and he falls to the ground with an unceremonious _thump_!

"You could have fucking caught me!" Romano yells into the floor, lying there in a heap.

"Romano Vargas," Antonio says, squatting down to poke at the brown mass of hair. It is very soft. "You still haven't told me why you came here."

Romano removes his face from the hardwood floor and looks up at Antonio. The journalist sees the golden brown – like fresh French toast – eyes and it makes his Spanish blood boil. The eyes watch his hand return to its body from the brown hair and for a moment, all signs of malice disappear from Romano's face. "You called me," he repeats. "So I came."

Antonio's dirty mind rewinds.

[=]

"I'm sorry," Ludwig says politely. "But I'm afraid I did not call for…anyone today."

The brown haired boy shakes his head, smiling gracefully. "No, not like that. Not anything like a physical call. Oh! I forgot. You don't know my name, right? I'm Feliciano. Feliciano Vargas!" He hops over from the middle of the room, all morphine in his blood apparently disappeared. You, like Ludwig, might be afraid by this whiplash bipolar behavior. "Please take care of me!"

"Ludwig. Charmed," Ludwig replies. It's curt, but how else can he respond?

"Now before they let me out, they told us to connect to channel five A-B-3-6-7, frequency seventy, and when I did, I got your wavelength." Ludwig takes a deep breath. This boy must be a hippie. Only hippies or aliens said things like this.

"My wavelength?" Ludwig asks, hoping he isn't encouraging this strange behavior, but he is. You, dear reader, should see that.

"Yep!" Feliciano chirps. "It's a gold, reddish black color." Those three colors cannot even mix, Ludwig thinks. "So I tracked you and I found you." He looks around the room. "You live in a nice place." As his eyes scan the room, Ludwig sees the violet 4 again. It is like a beacon on his skin.

"Where are you from?" Ludwig asks, watching as Feliciano wanders into the kitchen. On second though, he follows the boy too. "Showing up like that." What the hell. He is bored. Gott knows he needs something to do, something to write about. Even if this doesn't make the papers, it's enough for kicks. He thinks.

"_That_ place," Feliciano says, knowingly, emphasizing _that_ like Ludwig knows what _that_ is. He does not dare speak more of it. Feliciano sees the glass of beer for later on the counter and takes it. Then he drinks it. Ludwig's despair at the loss of a saved drink is palpable. "This is weird tasting," Feliciano comments after he drains the last drop, the foam settling on the bottom. "What's it called?"

"Beer."

"Ooh, it made my stomach feel funny," Feliciano said, suddenly dropping the glass. It tears through the air and smashes onto the ground. The sound makes him jump. Ludwig starts to get the dustpan. One of his glasses, gone.

"Don't touch it," Ludwig warns, as he sees the boy is bending down to pick it up out of his peripheral vision. "You might cut yourself." He turns for a second to pick up the dustpan and when he turns around, Feliciano is standing there, holding a completely new, sparkling glass in his hand. Ludwig stares. He swore he heard the glass break. He swore he _saw_ the glass break.

"Don't worry about it," Feliciano laughs. "I have it covered."

[=]

As all of this is happening and you have just been reading about it, a certain company in a certain part of the world issued a code red warning because four pairs of their tests have just escaped. Each of the four pairs have similar origins in which they are either twins or from similar lands. Because the company is worried about its public relations and this has been a breech of their top secret project, they spill the information to an underground network of informants and just as are you reading this very word, your neighbor has just gotten a call from the person above him in the calling chain and he or she will in turn call another to broadcast that eight dangerous, unruly individuals are now in the public sphere and must be brought back under their custody.

Who knows; maybe that phone call is for _you_.

[=]

Note: I was curious about this sort of style so this fic is experimentation – no pun intended. I got this idea strangely at work, which has nothing really to do with numbers. I'd like to know what you think: does this second-person-first-person-combined narrative work? Thanks for your comments!


	2. Jones Williams Intro

**Disclaimer: The only thing I own is the story idea and only some of the witty remarks. I own so little; so please don't steal.**

Background music: -

[=]

They are twins, but _not really_. You may think they appear to be the same, but just as any prolonged periods of observation will prove, they actually don't look that much alike. Take the one leading, striding confidently down the sidewalk – carefully note his apparent nonchalance, but at the same time, do not overlook the way he keeps looking over his shoulder. His hair is unkempt and his glasses look a bit crooked like he's been in a fight. His smile is easy and he looks either to be a brute in a Samaritan's body, or a Samaratin in a brute's body.

(Although when you really get down to it, whichever one it is really depends on how he's feeling.)

His name is Alfred. He will introduce himself as Alfred F. Jones, and you'd better be prepared for a dashing smile and a glint of white teeth. You know he _would _be quite the charmer if he kept his mouth shut most of the time. If you saw him on the street, where he is now as you are reading this, you would not need to hear him speak to know this. He's the sort to wear his heart on his sleeve. Only you don't really know where his heart lies because he can change interests so suddenly – but the one thing you can be sure of is the violet 4 printed on his neck, currently covered by a bulky, brown bomber jacket he's picked off a rack outside the Salvation Army.

(Whatever you do, don't accuse him of stealing it.)

The latter twin is the sort of person you would expect to greet you with an apology. He does not carry himself with the loudness of his brother. While Alfred would say he is the older twin, in reality, Matthew Williams is the elder of the two. Soft spoken and only slightly afraid of his shadow, he follows Alfred down the street, dodging the people who are about to walk into him because while I could do my best to convince you he exists, you could be looking him right in the eye and not know he is there. That is the sort of insignificance Matthew bears on himself and it shows – or not, depending on your point of view. But you know what I mean.

"Would you quit being so frantic?" Matthew gripes, although gingerly as if he cannot physically raise his voice any louder. "There's no one following us."

"That's what _you_ think," Alfred says, thrusting his finger in Matthew's direction and nearly taking out one of his brother's eyes. "But we've been wandering around for days. It's time to get a place to hide."

"That's what you said a couple days ago," Matthew mumbles.

"Hey," Alfred says. "Hey." He backtracks until he falls into step with Matthew and hangs a heavy arm around the latter's shoulders. "Are you doubting your awesome step-brother? Whatever, man. We may not have had the same mother, and our father may have been a douchebag who sold us to the Organization, but we're tight! We're bros! And I'm gonna make sure we're alright."

"Right," Matthew says, wincing as Alfred squeezes him.

[=]

If Arthur Kirkland knew he had moved away from his beloved hometown in England _just_ to be a landlord, he would never have relocated in the first place. Unfortunately, he does not have the genes to code for seeing into the future, so he is stuck regulating his building and making sure the tenants do not kill each other. Naturally, this breeds passive aggression. See, he has completely control over himself as he hangs up the phone, missing the receiver by a couple inches and denting his desk. And if you were to open one of the drawers, you would most definitely _not_ see a voodoo doll lying there because he is in no way _superstitious. _

Neither Alfred nor Matthew have the genes to code for clairvoyance either, so Alfred foolishly declares he will meet the landlord by himself – he can handle any kind of guy and if the landlord happened to be working for the Organization, he would make sure Matthew had adequate time to get away. He saunters into the office, introduction smile plastered on his face.

"Hey, what can a homie do to get a room in this joint?"

Arthur looks up, his venom eyes green as he glares in Alfred's general direction. Alfred steps back because he's felt such murderous intent before. "Whoa, eyebrows. I'm just asking for a room."

You can plainly see that Arthur Kirkland's eyebrows are on the large side of the spectrum, but you can also plainly see he does _not _like to be reminded of it. "I'm pretty sure hell can take one more, but this isn't hell's address, you arse. I can't be bothered." No, Arthur Kirland does not emulate what sort of mood he is in; he says it.

Alfred exhales. The probability of this man being in the Organization is low. He does not know how far its outside intel reaches, but he's sure this guy would have done something to him if he was part of it. Every member ranging from the top to the black market lackeys was there to see the new prototypes. Surely he would have been recognized by now.

Alfred F. Jones is not one to be careful. "Check out this boss tattoo," he says, pulling down the collar of his jacket to expose the violet 4. "Isn't it neat?"

Arthur looks up briefly. "Is that your IQ?" he inquires. When Alfred does not storm off in a huff, he sighs exasperatedly. "Okay, if you want a room, you're going to have to settle for whatever we have available. Right now, we've got a single room on the third floor, pretty low monthly rent. Now if you have any sort of payment up front, I would like to see it, preferably in cash…"

"I don't got money," Alfred says, and quickly jumps back in before Arthur can say anything. "But I can work around. I'm pretty useful and awesome if I do say so myself. So whatever you need me to do, I can do it. Um, in exchange for the rent, of course."

Arthur ponders his choices. He can kick this nutjob out. But he needs someone to fix the pipes every winter because Lord knows he isn't going to pay those incompetent nincompoops from the local plumbing company because they have been tinkering around for the past two years and nothing has changed. And this is the kind of guy who doesn't take a hint and hasn't given up yet, so Arthur figures he isn't going to leave any time soon. "Alright," he acquiesces, because he's feeling rather generous at the moment. "You got it. Now leave me alone." He digs the keys for the room out of a cabinet and throws it at Alfred. "Wait a moment and I'll get your lease…"

He goes into the backroom to get the lease for the room as Alfred bounds out, whooping it up in the hallway. Now I trust that you, dear reader, have seen slight of hand tricks before. Watch here carefully; see as Alfred F. Jones leaves the room. Now this is the most important part – see as Matthew Williams enters the room in his place, having heard his step-brother's voice.

"I've got it right here," Arthur says, coming back out and pulling a pen from his breast pocket. "Sign on the dotted line and you've got yourself a deal." Matthew blinks; but he figures Alfred jumped the gun so he has to pick up the pieces. That's the kind of brother he is. So, in his curly script, he signs _Matthew Williams_, smiles politely at the rather high-strung landlord, and leaves.

You, reader, have just witnessed the most professionally executed case of mistaken identity.

[=]

Matthew does not know where Alfred has gone. He just signed a lease, so he knows he is supposed to go to a room. But where that room is, he does not know. He decides to visit every single floor of this apartment complex to find his brother. It can't be that hard.

He is starting to regret this decision when he has walked the entire first and second floor and not seen a sign of his brother. Perhaps he can go back to the landlord and say he forgot the room? But that would be embarrassing…Matthew does not want to turn invisible and loot through the office. That would be even worse, morally. Biting his lip, he presses the _up_ button for the elevator and hopes the next floor, he will strike it lucky.

The elevator door opens and there is one person in the compartment. The man has long hair that falls to his shoulders in a wavy, fashionable style. His stubble looks accidentally deliberate. A nice-smelling cologne wafts off him in gentle waves and Matthew looks down to avoid meeting eyes with this posh stranger.

"I haven't seen you here before, sweetheart," the man says, standing right in the elevator doorway so Matthew cannot enter. "Are you new here?"

Matthew nods, feeling horribly underdressed in a red hoodie compared to the stranger's European brand clothing. Even his shoes glint up at him with sophistication. Matthew looks at his ratty running shoes Alfred salvaged for him.

"Well, it's nice to meet a new neighbor. I'm Francis. Francis Bonnefoy." There is a pause, before he continues. "Now, now, darling, I'm sure there's no need to study my shoes. Let me see your pretty face."

Matthew glances up, his eyes skittish. Francis lets out a breath with a low whistle intertwined. "Excuse me," Matthew says quickly. "I've got to find my brother. Um…I'm not sure where he's gone but he's going to be worried if I don't find him, so…ah…"

"I understand," Francis says, stepping out of his way smoothly. "You wish to be rid of me."

"No, that's not what I meant…eh…I just…"

"That's quite alright," Francis smiles, holding the door open as Matthew gets in. "But we must do dinner one of these days." But as you read this, Francis is already planning for the many dates he has lined up. He has many, many friends and neighbors to take out. He has, in fact, taken out one Arthur Kirkland, but that is history etched into the walls of the apartment complex.

Matthew practically stabs the _three_ button with his anxiety. The way the man stares at him scares him; if he is from the Organization, he should just grab him and take him away instead of keeping him on the edge. Francis's hand stays on the elevator door for a moment more before he extracts it and the door slides shut slowly. "By the way," the man's voice says, floating into the elevator through the crack, "you have a very interesting tattoo on your neck."

[=]

Note: Of course you were all expecting them since I had hinted about the twin part. However, the next two pairs are not twins. I had trouble coming up with the last pair but one of you gave me an idea so I will run with it…the image of the violet 4 comes from a bag I saw someone from my school holding. It had a big number 4 on it. I don't know what brand it's from. I apologize; I don't really like this chapter too much, but I'm not sure how to change it. But thanks for reading anyway!


	3. Walker Intro

**Disclaimer: The only thing I own is the story idea and only some of the witty remarks. I own so little; so please don't steal.**

Background music: -

Note: Angus = Australia, Shepy = New Zealand

[=]

On some side of the world, dear reader, there is a street corner. It is your everyday street corner; there's nothing special about it. There are a couple of plastic newspaper bins waiting for someone to pay to read the news. There is a streetlamp, which is currently turned off because it is day. The building that shares a corner with the sidewalk sells shoes. The shoes are moderately priced, but today there is a sale; buy a pair, get a pair half off.

But it here, reader, that this narrative begins. As your eyes reach this spot on the page, two people round the corner at a fast sprint. Following close on their trail is a black sports car without license plates. The car makes an unhealthy squealing sound as it skids along the road and nearly collides with a nearby parked bus. However, the police will not interfere – this is a matter of national security.

The two people on the run are, the Organization calls them, _fugitives_. They are running from where they belong; where they began and where they will end. If you begin to feel sympathy for them, the Organization will watch you too; you might be fraternizing with something that does not belong to you, and that is theft.

The pair duck into an alleyway that is too narrow for the car to follow them. The car stops as the beginning of the alleyway, for a second, to gauge the distance, and zooms onward to meet them at the other side. One of the two, dressed in a soft green zip up with the hood over his head, turns to the alleyway's entrance. "Let's go," he says softly, turning on his heel.

"Wait." The other, in a bulky hoodie, reaches out and grabs the former's hand with no explanation. They remain motionless for a couple seconds before another black sports car drives by; it has been following the first black car as backup and has not spotted the two in the alleyway. "They always do things in twos; haven't you noticed?"

The person in the green zip up nods once and allows the other to pull him out of the alleyway. They scan their surroundings and quickly cross the street to duck into a Salvation Army. The clerk at the counter glances up and ignores them to favor reading her magazine about the latest weight loss drug while popping bubblegum in the tune to her favorite song, which incidentally, is playing in her ears from a music player illegally snuck into her shift.

The two pull things haphazardly off the shelves and bins and hustle into a back room, where the changing areas are. "I never understood these places, having changing areas," the smaller of the two muses, pulling off the green zip up and thin shirt to expose a violet 4 on the small of his back. He pays it no mind as it flashes at him from the mirror.

"Even the Salvation Army has style, now, Shepy," his partner says with feigned sternness. He sheds his hoodie in favor of an out-of-style checkered shirt, which he struggles to find the front of as his violet 4 is exposed on his back. "Not everyone who comes here needs a quick getaway disguise like us."

"Still," Shepy shrugs, holding up a pair of plaid pants. He did not know he reached for these, but they'll have to do for now. "Can't complain, I guess. I think you've got that shirt on backwards, Angus."

Angus swears lowly under his breath, an Australian accent showing clear through. Normally, he can disguise his voice to sound more like the local dialect, but when agitated, he slips sometimes. Even you, reader, would be frustrated after struggling with an androgynous shirt for five minutes only to be told you had to wrong in the end. Shepy adjusts the awkward glitter belt that comes with the plaid pants. He decides he must look before he grabs next time.

"Your collar is wrinkled," Angus says, as Shepy straightens up. Miraculously, the Aussie has dressed himself relatively well despite the initial wardrobe malfunction. The checkers go unusually with the sandy-colored frayed slacks. Angus reaches over and adjusts the collar of Shepy's polo and brushes the young man's neck in the process.

Shepy inhales sharply and his face colors. Angus's hands pause, stiffening so there is no doubt that something just transpired. Shepy wishes his face would stop flushing and he wishes he would just reach up and swat Angus's hands away but he likes them resting their gentle pressure on his collarbone. He wishes he doesn't have to run all the time so he can really enjoy little things like that. "We can't start that," Angus says quietly, withdrawing his hands.

"Right," Shepy agrees awkwardly, although he does not feel the same emotion behind the word. He grabs the hat he took and jams it over his face, hoping to hide the apparent disappointment and crushing the curl on the side of his head. Angus surveys the area at the doorway of the changing room; the cashier girl is still bobbing away, oblivious. There is a door leading to the back and Angus beckons Shepy.

Outside, they land in another alley, although it's more of a back way. Imagine, if you will, the sort of place where gangsters make deals. There is mold on the walls and dripping water even when it hasn't rained for days. Rats scurry into the shadows at any sign of new movement. Angus leads, and Shepy notices that they aren't holding hands anymore, although they were when the car was chasing them. He isn't sure if he should feel relieved or upset, but there really isn't time to think about that.

Angus stops before they reach the sidewalk. The day is bright and sunny but neither can afford to lower their defenses, not when they are on the run from the Organization. A crow hops about on the sidewalk, picking at the cracks. Its feathers are stuck every which way like it's gotten into a fight and won. Angus looks at it.

"Talk to it," Shepy whispers. "See if it sees anything."

Angus looks at him with irritation. "You know it comes and goes." He rubs a spot on his back self-consciously.

"We've got to try it, at least," Shepy insists. Angus gives him an exasperated face and turns back to the crow, shrinking back into the shadows of the alley backway.

"Hey," he says. "Crow. Do you see anything?" He glances at Shepy, who shakes his head. "Crow. Crow, you hear me?" The crow hears him alright; it glances around in warning and ruffles his feathers as if getting ready for flight. Shepy makes wild gestures at him to stop scaring it and Angus wants to say if he keeps flailing, the crow will fly away. "Crow. _Crow_."

He knows he is cawing before he hears the word come out of his mouth. The crow starts and looks around, before settling on him like _who, me_? "What?" it squawks. "You talkin' to me?"

"'Course," Angus retorts. "Now I need a favor. You see anything out on the street? Suspicious men in suits? Strange black cars? Anything out of the ordinary?"

The crow looks around and stretches its coal black wings with boredom. "Nope. It's all clear. Just people walking around up to no good in the afternoon, skulking in alleyways." It gives the two a pointed look. "Scaring crows and such." With a triumphant _caw_, it takes to the sky and flies off.

"Well, that wasn't very nice," Angus mutters, stepping out into the sidewalk and agreeing that yes, the coast was clear.

"What did it say?" Shepy asks, following behind him. No one pays them any mind.

"It called us _birdbrains_." Angus lets this go unexplained until he remembers his brother doesn't speak animal. "It's an insult among birds."

"Oh," Shepy says, though he doesn't seem to comprehend that the crow basically called them SOBs in bird vernacular. They keep toward the buildings until Angus sees a vacant, abandoned apartment complex and pulls Shepy in. This is where they're staying for the night.

[=]

Angus and Shepy Walker are brothers and three years apart. Angus is the older, technically wiser one; he definitely looks the part, what with the scars and tanned hide. His hair is unruly and he stands as if he is dealing with the outback at all times. Shepy, on the other hand, appears more the voice of reason, and the voice of reason does not need braun. He is petite and harmless-looking; in fact, you might think he is a sheep wrangler by day. He has a gentle demeanor that contrasts Angus's rough one. But they are indeed linked by common blood.

Problem is, reader, Shepy Walker is in love with his brother Angus. He has been since they sold their freedoms and volunteered to be test subjects for the Organization. This makes it especially hard to be on the run, since it involves close relations such as staying together and maybe sleeping in the same bed.

Such is the case. Night has fallen and they lie on a lumpy mattress in a room whose door does not close all the way. Neither are very heavy sleepers and can bolt at a moment's notice. Shepy stares at the ceiling, which is peeling, and feels Angus's body heat next to him. It becomes a tad more intimate without lights, but the room they've nicked hasn't seen a lightbulb for months. "Why are they still after us?" he poses, just to ease the tension. "We're not the latest generation."

"First generations are still pretty valuable," Angus says. "We might still have the bugs that the second generations don't, but we still have information and data on the Organization and the development of Weapons. So we might not be as useful, but they're still going to try and keep us in to stop any kind of competition. Although I admit I'm surprised they didn't capture those blubbering twins yet."

"Yeah," Shepy murmurs, chuckling. If the Vargas twins were rounded up, they would have at least _heard_ it. "Hey, Angus," he says after a silence. "If…if we _do_ in fact find our Users…would we…would we be separated?"

It's a stupid question that neither of them can answer, but he wants to ask it anyway. He doesn't care if Angus doesn't know or if Angus doesn't return his incestuous feelings, but just having some sort of answer might help him sleep. There is another pregnant silence before Angus rolls over and holds him close. "Shaddup with your stupid questions, Shep. You always ask too many." He clears his throat as Shepy pretends he is _not_ inhaling and savoring his brother's scent. "Fluff up a bit, bro. It's a little chilly."

"Hmm…" Shepy closes his eyes and there is a sound like an inflating airbag. He opens his eyes again and sees patches of white wool on his arms and legs. "Incomplete," he says miserably. He hasn't been able to turn into a complete human cloud for ages now. The glitch in his genetics must be getting worse.

"It's fine," Angus says, holding him tighter, and Shepy is half-glad he can't see his expression in the darkness. "Just get some sleep and we'll find somewhere else tomorrow."

[=]

Note: Arg, these chapters are getting harder and harder to write. I think I'm gonna be a fan of this pairing. I think it's got potential. This was one of the original pairs in my head. I have a friend who has a friend named Shepy, so I stole the name. Speaking of which, you keen readers will see I have used the same name STWW calls Australia, which he has granted me permission to use. I hope this answered some questions and posed new ones? Thanks for reading!


	4. Kvalheim Intro

**Disclaimer: The only thing I own is the story idea and only some of the witty remarks. I own so little; so please don't steal.**

Background music: -

Note: Sebastian = Norway, Asger = Denmark

[=]

Dear reader, if you were to walk down the street and were to see an individual who does not meet your eyes, you may not think very much of him. If you spot someone carrying a heavy pack over his shoulder, you might choose to dwell instead on your midday meal. However, if you are to meet someone secretive with something half as big as he over his shoulders, you may give him one second look.

For this reason, during the time it took for you to click to read this narrative, Sebastian cannot get out of the city. Ever since his escape from the Organization, he cannot get across the borders – or even anywhere in public – without drawing attention to himself. It is not that he is very outstanding, but he skulks in the alleyways and shadows to look for a way out. The Organization has eyes and ears everywhere and if he keeps a low profile, he may be able to stay free for more than a couple of hours.

So far, he has not heard the telltale mental siren signaling the capturing of any of his fellow escapees, so he deducts they have all been able to escape detection. They have their own innate skills and each other – but Sebastian's traveling partner, his younger brother, is basically an unplayable character. He has been since the lockdown at the Organization they were all able to break out of. His brother is the newest generation and the only one of his kind; he has been closely monitored since he is theoretically the version with the least glitches. Sebastian considers it a personal victory to have retrieved his brother and have kept him close for the past several days.

For now, Sebastian shies away when a car drives by and holds his breath. He adjusts the straps that keep the package tightly attached to his back and waits until everything around them is still before finding a place to stay for the night.

[=]

Asger is the kind of man you're automatically friends with, but the kind of friend who you keep at a distance. You, reader, might know someone like him; the friend who smiles and looks unsuspecting with wild hair and a jovial demeanor – but when you peel it apart, you really know nothing about Asger. He is the neighbor that gets around with everyone else in the townhouse complex because he keeps his trash on his side and never makes a sound after one in the morning, but his occupation and his entire life is a big question mark. Sit in for tea at a neighbor's, and you may hear rumors of black market activity or covert missions – but really, Asger will tell you what he does, but only if you ask.

It is night and drizzling somewhere in the world. Sitting in your comfortable place and reading this, reader, you may not know that at this precise moment, Asger opens the front door of his living space to put his recyclables on his doorstep and finds a huddled mass near his mailbox. Loitering is not allowed in the complex and Asger prepares for the worst.

"Hey," he calls, keeping his voice friendly, but when the damp person does not answer, he walks out. "You can't sit there," he says. The person, a young man, glances up at him briefly, disinterestedly. His sandy blonde hair sticks to his face despite the makeshift hood over his head and he is cradling something in a rather large satchel. Asger blinks.

"Come in with me," he says, and pulls the young man to his feet. Somewhat reluctant, the stranger hesitates before limply allowing himself to be pulled into Asger's house. He stands in the foyer as Asger gets a towel. He still holds his bag, really a mess of cloth wrapped tightly around something egg-shaped. He does not let go of it even when Asger gets back and starts drying his hair. "What is that?" Asger asks, to lighten the mood.

"Something important," the stranger says, quietly, and grips it tighter.

"Relax," Asger assures him, rubbing the towel against his hair and stopping when he feels something hard under the cloth. Taking the towel away, he finds a white, cross-shaped clip holding back hair from the stranger's face. "I'm not going to take it away from you."

The stranger is silent, thoughtfully. He remains in the foyer even as Asger makes a move to go deeper into the house. "Come on," he coaxes. "Let's get you dried off. You'll catch cold if you stay in those wet clothes for any longer."

"I'm a Weapon," the stranger says suddenly. "I won't let you hand me in."

Asger stops and stares. "What are you talking about?" he laughs uneasily. The mood is suddenly tense and icy. "Do you have a firearm on you? I have a policy of no guns in the house, you know." The joke goes ignored and Asger studies the stranger closely. The young man does not look dangerous; he is still holding onto his item possessively and is still dripping. "I'll listen to you later; come on, let's get you changed."

The way the young man sets down his package reverently makes Asger curious, as he watches his visitor's reflection in the mirror of his closet. He pulls out some clothes he has kept that he is now too tall to wear and tosses them at the young man (a youth, really). The young man has no reservations and calmly begins stripping in front of Asger, keeping his focused eyes on his package at all times. As he shifts to pull on the dry pair of slacks, Asger sees it – a violet 4 on his back.

"Sebastian," the young man says, turning to Asger. He keeps the visible 4 turned to Asger for a couple seconds more, as if displaying it, gauging his reaction. Eventually, he slithers into a shirt, which sleeves still hang down to his fingertips. Dressed, Sebastian sinks down to the fabric-wrapped package and runs a hand over it carefully.

"What's in there?" Asger asks. He keeps a safe, cautious distance away. He does not want to spook Sebastian; the youth has made it clear that he does not trust anyone. Sebastian gives him a dismissive look and slowly begins to take the layers of cloth off the package.

Underneath the numerous layers of dirty, damp cloth is a person, wrapped in a cocoon of something that looks like ice. Asger stares as the last piece of wrapping is dropped onto a pile on the floor; there is a child in the middle of a huge ice chunk. But he knows it is not ice, because it has not melted. Crystal, then? Sebastian turns to Asger.

"My brother," he says simply, and through the clear crystal, Asger sees, on the boy's neck, a violet 4.

"How did that happen?" Asger finds himself asking.

"It's his skill," Sebastian murmurs. "He's a defensive unit. He can conjure shields to protect his User; but he defaulted during the escape and is trapped in a state of inactivity." His eyes are proud but sad. "I'm protecting him until he finds his User. I won't let anyone touch him."

Asger observes the crystallized boy for a moment more before standing. "Are you hungry?" he asks. "It's about time for dinner."

Sebastian's face has not changed expressions since the beginning. "Sebastian Kvalheim," he says. "That's my name."

"Nice to meet you. I'm Asger." Asger beckons him to his feet. "You look like you're going to collapse if you don't eat soon. Have you been on your feet this whole time? Come on."

Sebastian does not move from his post next to his brother. "This is Ice. His name used to be Jökull. But since the Organization, he's changed his name."

Asger smiles, though confusedly. "Why are you telling me all this?"

"Why are you being so nice?" Sebastian counters. He is defenseless, skinny and small surrounded by a sleeping, coma-ed boy and a pile of rags, but he looks so in control. "Why don't you ask questions? Why aren't you being curious?" In an instinctual sense, he looks to be between the stages of fight and flight – he cannot run because his brother is here, but he does not want to waste energy on an unnecessary conflict. His hands are fisted with the internal struggle, but he remains collected.

Asger shrugs. "I was never raised to be nosy. Everyone has things they don't want to tell, and it's alright not to. I just wanted to help."

"You just wanted to help," Sebastian repeats, almost acidly. He looks back at his brother. The crystal is a shield, but also a cage – it leans against Asger's bed frame. The light glow of the bed lamp casts shadows on every surface it touches.

"You can stay as long as you like," Asger offers. "Of course, if you're going to stay for _long,_ you're going to have to help pay for utilities…but you don't work, do you?"

Sebastian shakes his head. His attention does not waver for a second away from his brother, a white haired boy in a crystal womb. "We have been running for days," he says softly. "I've been waiting for him to wake up, but I don't know how to get him out of default mode."

"Come on," Asger repeats, this time more comfortingly and encouragingly. "You'll think better if you have something in your stomach and a good night's rest. I promise I mean you no harm. You can take your brother with you."

Sebastian ignores him for a moment before standing. "What's the use," he says, leaving emotion out of his voice. "You would have done something if you meant to return us." He takes a tentative step toward Asger, who takes this as a sign to take him downstairs and whip up something to eat.

[=]

Asger watches at the doorway in the spare room as Sebastian sleeps, curled up on the bed with the comforter around him. Ice and his crystal cave stay at the foot of the bed, emitting a soft, blue light. The Dane stays at the door for a while more before tiptoeing away to his room.

What you must understand, reader, is that Asger's house is not as it seems. What appears to be an ordinary bedside table is anything but. Asger sits on the bed and opens the drawer. In it is a book, a pair of reading glasses, and a calculator. However, if you were to try and take the calculator out, you would find yourself attempting in vain. Asger's fingers dance across the numbers and the drawer clicks. The book's cover opens mechanically and reveals a phone.

Asger dials the number inscripted on the inside of the book and types in his identification code. The smooth voice of the operator inquires of his business and he keys in 10 – 8. The operator then tells him to stay on hold, she is directing him. He almost scoffs. With this business, he would think they would connect immediately.

"Safe word?" a voice prompts through the phone.

"Spear," Asger answers easily. There is a pause for clarification and the voice continues.

"You have a Weapon recovered?"

"Two, actually. One Sebastian Kvalheim and his brother Ice or Jökull or whatever he goes by in your records."

"Impressive for an intel agent," the voice says. "Details please? Remember you are being recorded."

"Of course," Asger replies. He is always recorded when he calls. He is an intel agent for the Organization, after all. He works the black market and buys and sells information and answers back to the Organization. To be honest, this is his first time dipping a toe into the activities of his employer. "I found them outside my house."

There is a pause but Asger has nothing left to say. "That is all?"

"That is all. Shall I take them to a recovery site, or will you send backup?"

"How is Kvalheim?" The voice clarifies before Asger can begin. "The older one; we know the younger has defaulted."

"Chatty," Asger muses, although when he thinks about it, he can't really envision Sebastian being much of a talker. From all the Weapons he has seen, they are not a talkative bunch (save for the Italian ones, but every Italian he knows has been a chatterbox). "But suspicious. I thought he was on to me, but he trusts me enough to lower his guard. He is sleeping as we speak."

"Good. He shall stay there until further notice."

Asger almost trips verbally. "Excuse me?" he asks. From what he knows, Weapons are extremely dangerous. The Organization is willing to kill to get one back. There are other groups eager to get their hands on one. To keep one (much less two) in his house will require him to do his best to remove the bright, shining beacon on his door. "I am an intel agent," he reminds the voice, somewhat testily. "I cannot act if I am impeded like this."

"Someone from Central will come to collect them in the future," the voice replies curtly. "For now, you will be elevated to Handler. You know the protocols for Weapons, I assume. Do not alert either of them of your intentions and keep the civilian act up even in front of the default Weapon – it can still hear you, despite being incapacitated."

Asger sighs angrily. "May I ask why we can't make an exchange now?"

"Sebastian Kvalheim may be the most powerful Weapon of his generation – not of all the generations, but of his, especially. His skill involves collecting local energies and manifesting them . He can see energies ordinary humans cannot and can harvest them. However, his powers are very unstable – if he were to be in danger, we do not know the fallout. It is in our and your best interests to keep him immobile and dumb; we will come to take him back when he least expects it so you will not get caught up in the aftershocks.

"Keep in mind, agent, that other groups have received the intel as well that we are missing eight of our Weapons. Do not, I repeat, do not go looking for the other Weapons; we have those in control. However, we only ask that you, in addition to distracting the Weapons, to keep them away from our enemies. You remember your _friend_ Berwald, correct?"

His jaw clenches. Berwald. "Yes," Asger grounds out.

"We can safely assume with our current data that Berwald and his partner Tino are actively seeking out our missing Weapons. Given your knack of knocking heads, the Organization would prefer that you cut off all contact with him. We do not want this to get out more than it has."

"Yes," Asger repeats, and this time he means it. While before, he might not have had an incentive, but this changes things. Berwald, his rival, cannot get his hands on the Weapons. There are, dear reader, grievances and grudges that cannot be erased over time. Asger would rather die than surrender anything – his pride, his dignity – to Berwald. "Mission accepted."

[=]

Note: I think I'm in way too deep on this one. Well, here we are. All four POVs have been introduced. From here on out, I'll be telling this fic through these pairs – the Macaroni Bros, the Americas, Australia and New Zealand, and Nor and Ice. Actually, to be honest, I had the first three planned out but I hadn't known what to do for a fourth brotherly pair (I guess I could have gone Asian) but someone wondered if it was Nor and Ice, and I decided for it. I hope this isn't too confusing, although it's meant to be. So I hope I can clear things up for you next!

Updates are going to be very spotty and sporadic. I haven't been writing too much Hetalia and I haven't actually had time to, so please bear with me. Thanks for reading!


	5. Vargas Explanations

**Disclaimer: The only thing I own is the story idea and only some of the witty remarks. I own so little; so please don't steal.**

Background music: -

Charlie = Belgium, Ned = Netherlands

[=]

Ludwig is surprised that Feliciano can cook. For some reason – maybe it's because he can _fix things without anything_ – he had perceived his strange visitor as something of an alien that wouldn't know the ways of the human world. But after following the young man's exploration of his apartment for the good part of the afternoon, Ludwig's stomach growled despite itself and Feliciano had turned and said it was time for dinner. Ludwig had planned on cooking himself, with the limited collection of recipes in his head, but Feliciano had rolled up his sleeves and plucked out ingredients that Ludwig didn't even know he had and whipped up something quite delicious.

So while you, dear reader, might have snacked on something salty and sipped something sweet throughout the day leading up to you reading this story, Ludwig Beilschmidt sits down at the table for delicate angel hair pasta and creamy alfredo sauce. It's certainly an improvement from his simple beans-and-rice approach and while it's a break from his usual staple of potatoes, Ludwig doesn't mind.

"Is it good?" Feliciano asks, pouring wine into a simple wineglass Ludwig didn't remember purchasing. "I had the sauce simmering for quite a while."

"It's really good," Ludwig admits, a little disappointed that he can't come up with anything more intricate or descriptive. Feliciano finds this adequate and happily eats up the dish in front of him, dabbing the corners of his mouth daintily when he is done. He might even have passed as an ordinary dinner guest, if not for the violet 4 that has drawn Ludwig's eyes the entire time he's been sitting in front of the other.

Usually the garish light over the dining table illuminates him while he eats; Ludwig is surprised at how the use of lighting can help a meal. Feliciano had insisted on keeping it off and switching on a lamp a distance away, the faint, soft glow acting like a candle. The drapes have not been drawn and the lights of the city outside remind him of the cheesy movies he has (not) watched (all the way through), where sophisticated people did sophisticated things. And indeed, the way Feliciano lifts the glass, he simply oozes class.

"What are you?" Ludwig asks bluntly.

"I'm a second generation Weapon, created by the Organization," Feliciano says easily, smiling.

Ludwig stares at him, and something within him itches to for him to grab a pen and paper to write this down. What a strange story this would make, if it was fact. "Which organization?" he tries to clarify.

"_The_ Organization," Feliciano says earnestly.

Ludwig decides to skip past that little detail. "So you're a weapon. What…_kind_ of weapon are you?" He is reminded of the weird manga that one of his fellow journalists, an eccentric Japanese man named Kiku, reads – something involving humans who can turn into guns or things like that. What if Feliciano turned into a tank or something?

"I can fix things," Feliciano says. "As long as there is a guideline. Like cracks or things like that. Anything that can be reconstructed, I can make it better." He sets the glass down, his eyes downcast, so Ludwig can see only a little of his golden brown eyes. He doesn't elaborate.

"That's not…" Weaponry? How can he believe such nonsense like this? It's unlike him. But of course, Feliciano _had_ fixed that glass before. "Why are you telling me all this?" he ventures instead. "I've never heard of this stuff before…it doesn't seem like it would be something anyone would want to make common knowledge." Why is he encouraging this? The 4 draws his eyes again.

"I think you're my User," Feliciano confesses, and this jolts Ludwig even though he doesn't know what it implies. It seems as important as _I love you_ or _you're the father_ and somehow, being a User is something bigger than him. "We were supposed to search for our connecting wavelengths and you came up." For all the stupidity that he seems to emit, Feliciano picks up that Ludwig doesn't understand. "Weapons have certain abilities they have that can be enhanced in the presence of Users with certain wavelengths. The harmony of the Weapon and the User's wavelengths strengthens the ability the Weapon has."

Ludwig rubs his temples and Feliciano looks at him apologetically from across the table. "So what you're saying," the German tries to summarize, "is that you were created by this organization and you have this power to fix things. And I'm someone who can improve your power." Feliciano nods. "So are you…like a machine or something?"

"No! I'm one-hundred percent human!" Feliciano waves his fingers around. "I'm the same like you! Except…there's something about my genes that are different. I don't really understand it, but it's something scientific."

Ludwig wants this to be something in his dream. Maybe he is asleep. It's like an out of body experience, as if I were to tell you, reader, that you're not really reading this story, you're just creating it in a dream that you will wake up from and realize that I am not a real narrator. It doesn't make sense to any logic he is aware of. "Why are you here?" he asks. "Am I supposed to go back to your organization with you or something?"

"_The_ Organization," Feliciano says. "And…well…it's not like that…" He fiddles with his napkin. "The thing is, I've run away from the Organization."

The napkin rips between Feliciano's fingers and Ludwig feels like that is how is life is going right now – it's been torn from the tracks he's been coasting on. He has been derailed and is now rushing at breakneck speed into a dark forest he does not know anything about. Feliciano chuckles uneasily and Ludwig does what he always does when he needs to relax – he picks up the dishes and proceeds to clean them.

[=]

Antonio's clothes are too big for Romano. It is the first thing out of his mouth after he brushes himself off from the ground: "Get me something else to wear, bastard!" And he expects Antonio do his bidding, because something about the Spaniard being his User (has anything sounded so kinky?). Even some of Antonio's old jeans hang off Romano's hips and an old shirt's sleeves extend to the young man's fingertips. Still, this is good enough because the visitor abandons the white gown to wander around the apartment, inspecting it carefully.

"What are you supposed to be?" Romano demands. "A _pig_ or something?"

"Um," Antonio says, holding the deserted hospital gown and following the rude Italian around his place. "I'm a journalist. I report news and stuff." Talking about that, he has a deadline coming up. But do not worry, readers. He has charmed his editors into giving him extensions before. He's sure he can do it again. (Hopefully.)

"Is that so," Romano sniffs, poking around his desk. Blurry photos and scribbled notes fall onto the floor as he rummages around. "Is there _anything_ redeeming about you at all? How can you be my User? You're not even that attractive." He picks up a photo of Antonio and his two friends, a cheerful woman and her stoic boyfriend. "Who is this?" he asks curiously, pointing to the serious-looking tall boyfriend.

"That's Ned. He's my friend. That's his girlfriend Charlie. Aren't they cute~?"

"What does he do?"

"He's a journalist, like me."

Romano looks slightly troubled. "How long as he been a journalist?"

"As long as I have…that's about…hmm…six years, I think it's been." Antonio thinks to himself. Has it been that long since he's graduated? Wow. To think he's a successful adult! What a surprise; his mother has been telling him for ages that he will always be a silly country bumpkin and now look, he's living on his own in the city on cup ramen! Romano gives him a skeptical look.

"Well, it's probably not…" Romano trails off, letting the photo fall from his hands. "I'm hungry!" he announces, putting his hands on his hips in an attempt to appear authoritative and commanding. "Take me out, dammit!"

So although Antonio doesn't have a large budget, he goes out with Romano Vargas to a local sit-down restaurant. While they are ordering, Romano continues to tug at his collar to try and cover up the 4. When he is satisfied, he takes to staring out the window silently, seethingly, apparently. Antonio smiles to himself as he stirs the ice around in his Coke.

"So…" Antonio starts, and Romano grunts in reply. "Would you mind telling me who you are and why you're making me cart you around?"

Reader, to have Romano rephrase Feliciano's explanation would be repetitive, and you only need to know that is much less detailed and more explicit (language-wise, of course). Romano is not a very patient person and if you were to have been one of the diners sitting at a table a couple places away, you would see him frustrate himself attempting to explain everything to Antonio. "So basically I've run away," Romano grouses. He looks around angrily. "And if any of the Organization's people overheard me, I'm screwed." When no one gets up and goes to grab him, he scowls at Antonio. "So take responsibility."

"For what?" Antonio asks, baffled, still trying to wrap his mind around the situation. He, a user? Of what weapon? Romano does not look threatening. And this organization thing sounds so suspicious! Holding someone so that they have to run away! What kind of exposé would that make! He would gain so much credit as a journalist! But is it a story he should be writing? Romano is making it sound so secretive.

"You're my User!" Romano shouts, before quieting down. "You've got the wavelength. Now take care of me. It's your _job_."

"I already _have_ a job," Antonio protests. "You just came here and ordered me around; I can't just drop everything and listen to you!" For a split second, his late article waves in his mind and he is _that_ distressed, he is thinking about _work_. "I don't think you want me to write about you in my stories, right?"

"No!" Romano looks anguished and confused, as if he can't understand why Antonio would be actually rebuking him. In fact, he is getting taller – Antonio realizes a moment later that the boy is starting to levitate again. Another moment later, as Romano's knees hit the bottom of the table, Antonio remembers they are in public and floating people are weird. He smashes his hands on Romano's shoulders and forces him back into the booth. "Why are you being such a bastard? I'm just a _Weapon_, I just have this stupid _power_, why are you being such a jerk?" For all his attitude, Romano is quite sensitive, and a crybaby. Antonio looks around, alarmed. He looks like a jerk for making someone cry.

"It's okay," Antonio says awkwardly. It always comes to this. Someone has to cry before he realizes he's making someone upset. Why can't people be easier to read? He never knows when Charlie is mad at him until Ned comes up to him and tells him to leave her alone. It's not his fault he can't read the atmosphere; no one's making it easier. "You can stay with me…I mean, what the hell…maybe there's _some_ way to spin this to the press…" He chuckles jokingly as Romano gives him a teary glare. "I'm just kidding…"

"Tony!" A familiar voice rings through the air and Charlie rushes over to the table. "Oh, Tony!" She frowns as she watches Romano pretend he's not crying. "Why are you making people cry?" Quickly ripping out some tissues from her purse, she hands them to Romano, who accepts them begrudgingly. "Did you get your article done? I finally finished mine and Ned's taken me out for dinner! Small world, running into you here!"

"Yeah," Antonio says, smiling. Charlie is a bit of a chatterbox. She's always so cheerful and chipper; a clear contrast to Ned, who comes up with an expressionless face – though it's a little frowny today. "Hi, Ned."

"Hi," Ned says, as Charlie grins from ear to ear at them, her smile matching the cheerful orange headband in her hair. "Who is this?"

"Oh? This is…" A sharp kick from under the table makes Antonio wince and he looks at Romano. The boy is looking in the opposite direction, distracted, now more agitated than upset. "This is…Lovino. Lovino…ah…Fernandez."

"Fernandez? Isn't that your mother's maiden name?" Charlie's eyes widen. "Ooh! A cousin of yours?" Shamelessly, she grabs Romano's face and turns it toward her, oblivious to the shock in it. "He doesn't look like you…but he's really cute!"

"He's not my cousin," Antonio says, although it would have made a good alibi. Well, he isn't known for his quick wit. Charlie examines Romano some more, much to the latter's chagrin.

"These are your clothes, aren't they, Tony?" she asks, tugging around at Romano's clothes. "He's rather young…did you run away from home, young man?" The question startles the Italian, who shifts away, clearly too terrified to say a word. "Oh, I'm sorry…I didn't mean to be rude…but…picking up strays, Tony. I didn't think you did things like that."

"That is a strange tattoo," Ned comments suddenly, pointing to Romano's neck. The violet 4 flashes clearly past the collar, which Romano quickly yanks up. "I've never seen anyone wear that before."

"Oh! What was it?" Charlie giggles as Romano resists her. "Come on, let me see."

Antonio wonders why Romano seems so uneasy. His friends have been nothing but friendly. Well, sure, Charlie has been rather forward and Ned is quiet, but that's what they are. He thinks back to when Romano looked at the picture of them. He was pretty startled about the running away comment. He had run away from some organization, right? _Right_. "They're not part of that organization," Antonio blurts out. Charlie stops and stares at him, as Romano gives him a frantic look. "So don't worry about it."

"What are you talking about?" Charlie asks. She can barely get another word out when Romano pushes past her and rushes out. Antonio shoots out of the chair to follow him as Charlie tucks her hair out of her face. "That was curious, wasn't it, Ned?"

Ned looks at the spot where Romano just was, then to where he had run off to. "Yes, it was."

[=]

Note: More explanations…I was going to say that I use the name Romano because I like it better, but I guess the whole Romano/Lovino problem settled out nicely. ANYWAY, I just planned out the whole Organization plotline so it's good to have something set in stone instead of just writing and hoping it makes sense. If there's anything continuity-wise that is confusing or untouched, please don't hesitate to comment about it! It might be something coming up, it might be something I forgot. Thanks for reading!


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